


Not Nothing

by sweeterthankarma



Series: SKAM Fic Challenge August 2020 [18]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26040412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: Silent, slow tears drip down Isak’s cheeks when the plane takes off with a lurching shudder. Even’s hand encompasses Isak’s clenched fist, balled up inside the fabric of his favorite hoodie.Even’shoodie. Though he sits right beside him, close and alert and open, Isak bundles himself up in the grey sweatshirt like it’s all he has left of Even.Like he’s the one that Isak’s lost.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Series: SKAM Fic Challenge August 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867486
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	Not Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> For thirty one days, I'll be writing and posting SKAM fics inspired by the prompts listed [here](https://www.writerswrite.co.za/31-writing-prompts-for-august-2020/). These fics will be anywhere from 100-1,000 words approximately, will be for different characters and relationships, canon and non-canon, within the original Norwegian SKAM universe. All fics will stand alone. Check out the prompt list and let me know if you have any ideas for what you'd like me to write on a specific day!
> 
> Day 18 Prompt: Sadness.
> 
> Welp, this is depressing. I apologize in advance. But with a prompt like that, how could it not be?

Even clutches his passport. The pad of his thumb on his right hand traces the outline of his imprinted photograph as he rubs Isak’s knuckles with his left. Isak’s grip is tight, unrelenting, has been nearly all day. He doesn’t let go, even when they get up to the check-in desk and greet the employee with quick, neutral formalities.

She analyzes the information tucked inside Even’s burgundy booklet with a fleeting, automatic glance. She scans the picture, taken years ago when Even’s hair was shorter and he hadn’t yet acquired the ability to grow a beard, but aside from that, he doesn’t look too different. 

On another day, Isak would tease him about it, would say that he looks like a baby and that he should never cut his hair that short ever again, never dive into territory so faintly buzzcut-esque again. He’d kiss the picture, then Even’s cheek, then pretend to burrow the passport away into his pocket for safe keeping, for later reflection. 

“I’m going to make a shrine of you,” Isak had declared on past occasions, a goofy grin plastered on his face—  tan from the Morrocan sun, bittersweet when coming home from the best vacation of their lives; chilled, red and flushed from the London rain, different from Norway but still just as icy in the winter months. Wherever they go, even if nowhere at all, and whatever picture Isak looks at, even if it’s one he’s seen a million times, he always makes that joke. 

Not today, though. Today, Isak says nothing. Hasn’t really said anything all morning.

It’s not like Even expects him to. Sitting in the stiff chairs at their gate with over an hour and a half to spare, he leaves Isak for only a moment to get coffee for the both of them. He snags the last available blueberry muffin for Isak too, knowing it’s his favorite. He also knows Isak probably won’t eat it. That’s okay. 

Silent, slow tears drip down Isak’s cheeks when the plane takes off with a lurching shudder. Even’s hand encompasses Isak’s clenched fist, balled up inside the fabric of his favorite hoodie.  _ Even’s _ hoodie. Though he sits right beside him, close and alert and open, Isak bundles himself up in the grey sweatshirt like it’s all he has left of Even.

Like he’s the one that Isak’s lost.

Isak’s mother passed overnight. No suffering, no pain, just...release. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Even doesn’t try to tell Isak that it’s better this way, that she’s lucky that she didn’t have to fight too hard, exhaust herself, make it worse for herself and everyone around her. Even isn’t sure he believes that, anyway. There’s no luck in situations like this, none at all. 

They found out yesterday. An afternoon snack at their favorite cafe turned sour, into discarded plates and half-sipped drinks turning sticky with condensation. Even had watched it all unfold: Isak answering his phone, the caller ID reading his father’s name, his chipper “hello” almost immediately swallowed up by a look of concern, then fear, then sadness. More sadness than Even’s ever seen on his face. More sadness than Even thinks he’s maybe seen on anyone, ever.

Isak’s sleep schedule had just been improving. Now, he’s bleary-eyed and exhausted, running on maybe an hour of sleep, if that. Slumped against Even once they hit a steady altitude, he ignores the stewardess while Even takes two bags of surely stale pretzels from her, shoving them away into his already overstuffed bag. 

Eventually, they’ll both be hungry again. Eventually, Isak will sleep. He’ll sit up straight and unclench his fists and smile again and laugh again and be happy again. This is what Even thinks to himself, wishes he could telepathically tell Isak. He’s not going to preach, not going to give any half-assed attempt at consolation that won’t change anything, no matter how genuine it is. He’ll spare Isak the words that he knows firsthand won’t make him feel like anything but a victim, like someone left behind, abandoned and struggling. It’s not going to change how Isak feels, nothing could. It’s not going to change the way he’s going to cope, the way he needs to cope. And it’s not going to bring Marianne back, no matter how much Even wishes it would.

Tears prickle in Even’s own eyes and he bites them back, grips his bottom lip with his teeth and blinks, looks up, tries to peer directly into the air socket above their seat and will the miniature fan to direct enough wind to dry his eyeballs. He’s pretty sure he just looks insane to anyone who may catch sight of him but it’s too early of a flight for anyone else to care, and certainly too early for him to care either.

The armrest between him and Isak sticks up precariously, three quarters of the way up to where it should be thanks to a former passenger who stuck a massive wad of gum against the metal hinge. Even’s hand stays high on Isak’s shoulder, moving to the back of his head instinctually and immediately whenever Isak shifts, close to bumping it. He doesn’t move even close to it though, instead just sinks deeper and closer into Even’s arms, like he’s trying to immerse himself in him. Even does the same, wishes he could take all of Isak’s grief and wrap it up and toss it out of the emergency exit a few rows ahead of them. He’d at least like to carry it himself.

Later, Isak will weep into Even’s lap, feel newfound gratitude blended into the grief because Even lets him scream and fight and cry and get angry and get sad and get stoic. Even doesn’t dare let him feel sorry about it for even a millisecond. But for now, Isak is here, thirty eight thousand feet up in the air, swimming in clouds with the window shade shut; closing in on his homeland that’s lacking half of the main semblance of home. But Even is with him, and that’s not nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day. 
> 
> Come say hi at my Tumblr blog [here!](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/)


End file.
